"pulmonary" poems
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.
From the Vena Cava to the Right Atrium.
From the Right Atrium through the Tricuspid valves.
Through the Tricuspid valves to the Right Ventricle.
Up the Pulmonary Artery.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the pulmonary artery.
To the lungs.
Blood becomes Oxygenated
Oxygenated blood flows from the lungs to the left side of the heart through the Pulmonary Vein.
From the Pulmonary Vein to the Left Atrium.
From the Left Atrium through the Bicuspid valves.
Through the Bicuspid valves to the Left Ventricle.
Up the Aorta.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the Aorta.
Oxygenated blood is sent around the body.
Blood becomes Deoxygenated
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava........
SO If you tell me your heart is "literally broken" just don't.
It isn't broken.
It just hurts.
It's just feels horrible.
Painful.
A feeling that hurts you and feels like your heart hurts so much that it's actually broken.
But your heart doesn't actually hurt.
It's just a feeling.
The cycle stills goes on.
It is still functioning.
So, next time you feel your "heart breaking" and literally being "torn apart",
Remember...
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.
From the Vena Cava to the Right Atrium.
From the Right Atrium through the Tricuspid valves.
Through the Tricuspid valves to the Right Ventricle.
Up the Pulmonary Artery.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the pulmonary artery.
To the lungs.
Blood becomes Oxygenated
Oxygenated blood flows from the lungs to the left side of the heart through the Pulmonary Vein.
From the Pulmonary Vein to the Left Atrium.
From the Left Atrium through the Bicuspid valves.
Through the Bicuspid valves to the Left Ventricle.
Up the Aorta.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the Aorta.
Oxygenated blood is sent around the body.
Blood becomes Deoxygenated
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.............
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
“Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. I only just heard the sad, sad news of Robin Williams’s death. My wife sent me a message to tell me he had died, and, when I asked her what he died from, she told me something that nobody in the news seems to be talking about.
When people die from cancer, their cause of death can be various horrible things – seizure, stroke, pneumonia – and when someone dies after battling cancer, and people ask “How did they die?”, you never hear anyone say “pulmonary embolism”, the answer is always “cancer”. A Pulmonary Embolism can be the final cause of death with some cancers, but when a friend of mine died from cancer, he died from cancer. That was it. And when I asked my wife what Robin Williams died from, she, very wisely, replied “Depression”.
The word “suicide” gives many people the impression that “it was his own decision,” or “he chose to die, whereas most people with cancer fight to live.” And, because Depression is still such a misunderstood condition, you can hardly blame people for not really understanding. Just a quick search on Twitter will show how many people have little sympathy for those who commit suicide…
But, just as a Pulmonary Embolism is a fatal symptom of cancer, suicide is a fatal symptom of Depression. Depression is an illness, not a choice of lifestyle. You can’t just “cheer up” with depression, just as you can’t choose not to have cancer. When someone commits suicide as a result of Depression, they die from Depression – an illness that kills millions each year. It is hard to know exactly how many people actually die from Depression each year because the figures and statistics only seem to show how many people die from “suicide” each year (and you don’t necessarily have to suffer Depression to commit suicide, it’s usually just implied). But considering that one person commits suicide every 14 minutes in the US alone, we clearly need to do more to battle this illness, and the stigmas that continue to surround it. Perhaps Depression might lose some its “it was his own fault” stigma, if we start focussing on the illness, rather than the symptom. Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. He died from Depression*. It wasn’t his choice to suffer that.”
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
You are the systole to the diastole
Of my four-chambered cavity
You are the pulmonary rhythmic control
That fills air to my capillary.
You are the Pituitary Gland
That drowns my bloodstream in dopamine
You take my brain to a wonderland
Drunk and overdosed in Seratonin.
You are the only Mitochondrion
That powers all cellular activity
My Cytoplasms are in motion
For the sexiest Golgi Body.
You are the ultimate synapse
In my every granule of neuron
That gives an involuntary prolapse
To both my dendrite and axon.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
flesh is nothing but a plastic cover
and if you s t r e t c h it far enough
the seams begin to rip, hovering
a guideline instead of a fence
a tongue is nothing but a stretchy strawberry
and if you cut it clean in half
the seeds disperse, swearing
to rearrange the words into normal speech
the brain is nothing but playdough
and if you let it mold
the pink uncoils, forgetting Plato
remembering nothing
the smile is nothing but a bunch of ugly mirrors
and if you rip them out by the roots
the spotlights reverse, it only gets worse
and you stare at your self-destruction for eternity.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 12:22 AM UTC
You want to know what's unfair?
Unfair is having diagnosed with pulmonary tuberculosis at the age of 22 despite never having smoked a single cigarette your entire life.
Unfair is having to take 3 months unpaid leave because you're "not safe" to be around anybody.
What's not fair is the inability to walk 5 steps to the kitchen without running out of breath.
What's not fair is the never ending painful coughs at night and having neighbours complaining.
You know what's unfair?
Unfair is losing half of your lung in a battle you never started.
What's unfair is hearing your family members talking behind your back claiming you have Aids, despite never been with a woman before.
What's unfair is fighting so hard to get back on your feet, to get back to full recovery only to get the news that you are now diagnosed with Bronchitis;
Hearing that you will never be able to run like you used to.
That you will never be able play soccer again.
What's unfair is the constant fear that follows after.
The fear that no girl would ever want you.
The constant fear that you might never be able to satisfy any girl.
The fear that, what if you get someone sick despite being 100% cleared?
Now that is unfair.
Unfair is whilst other people take few days to heal from cold and flue, you have to take weeks of antibiotic treatment, just to rid off the same cold.
What's unfair is people constantly thinking your TB is back everytime that cold starts.
Unfair is constantly having to explain why you breathe so heavily.
Unfair is always trying to act "normal"
You really wanna know what's unfair?
Unfair is having your brother lose the battle against the same TB you won against 3 years ago.
What's unfair is having him leave behind his 3 year old with no one.
What's unfair is that you didn't choose any of this.
And Unfair is writing all of this with a broken heart and a tear rolling down my cheek, because this is a true story.
It's My story. And regardless, I'm Still here.
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 3:07 AM UTC
I'm ruptured whole and am considered
inadequate
as my
amygdala slides through the trachea drops to my ventricles falls through the aorta plunges to my diaphragm hits the esophagus crashes to my phalanges. There is no hope.
May I hold something over your cranium?
May I remind you of your neuron imbalance? And yet
you sit and
watch as
my septum separates from the left atrium from the right ventricle from the bicuspid from the tricuspid from the pulmonary semi-lunar valve.
I love you. (Stupid cerebral cortex.)
I love you. (Imprudent Broca's area.)
I love you. (Hopeless frontal lobe.)
I love your nonfunctional mind and functional soul and
Well
this is all a metaphor for unrequited love.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC
Do I write to cure my mind of the things unseen,
By any other human being,
To regain strength from the pain?
That solemnly remains,
In my heart relentlessly stopping me,
From pleasures that are gained?
Am I the one that’s standing alone in the rain?
Or am I myself the rain?
Is it me that is untamed,
Causing bad weather that strikes the pulmonary vein?
Though my thoughts I try to contain.
Am I like hurricane Katrina?
Yet not wanting to cause harm to New Orleans.
So can I relate myself to hurricane Jane?
Who quickly passes over the Bahamas,
Not causing too much disaster,
But after Francis what else is there to be seen?
Did I change everything,
Because it looks like everything’s the same.
Even without me there will be someone with my name.
Just not my fingerprints though, they would have never came.
So really is the world the same without me,
Or would it have a different frame?
©
Feb 4, 2010
Feb 4, 2010 at 10:01 AM UTC
dedicated banishment
self inflicted, echoing
physical displacement
from permanent coronary scarification
devouring accidentally my lacerated pulmonary edema
cauterizing weakness into cement
thermodynamically frozen muscles
umbrellas on parade in your city
netherworld for my regret
disreputable raincoats rubbery ebbing
against a tide of discontent
ringing out like let-downs
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
I measured time in heartbeats and length
by how far your fingers traced on my skin.
Time passed like sultry summer nights
and length was as far as the night stars
that kept us company.
Every second was one I tried to keep safe
instead of cherish.
I wish you’d still wrap your hands around mine
as tight as you do your morning tea.
Because you are my pulmonary veins,
carrying all the broken parts I give and
returning them alive.
Reviving blood as dense as lead,
warming it like the sunrise I used to feel you in.
But now I can only battle eyelids that drop
like anchors near shallow shores;
trying to find the footing your eyes once gave
(still give).
And you might call me a liar,
but it felt like forever to me.
I still measure time in heartbeats
but length by how far
you feel from me.
And right now time moves
as quick as early mornings,
and length is farther than I’d like.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
dark storms rising
as electricity
crackles up my spine
in ascent of moonspell
as I trip through
my own wires
my inner sense
of flesh
reverberating
in waves of
magnetic fireworks
and suddenly
I am spinning
my fibers
all splayed out
for you to see
a cartographer
of emotion
mapping your veins
and arteries
and we hold citizenship
of a private inner land
a country
that we share
as we into light expand
my inner goddess in tune
with your
molecules and carbon
your cells rushing like
a river
into my estuary
in landscapes of longing
blissfully unaware
but for our souls'
secret language of
pumping blood and fire
from here, it's uncharted
but for the rhythms
of desire
invisible to the naked eye,
we exquisitely penetrate
the surface
descend into the
depths of bones
the most primal core
where lava licks
push spirit's will
straight up to the fore
and I am the spark in
your most opaque rage
ready
to give it up
in dust and magic
as pulmonary exhale
flows the blood
and we dissipate , slowly
into uninhibited flood
Take me apart,
dark love
pulverize my limits
fly with me
to the opposite
of loneliness
where
every
millisecond
breathes
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 12:15 AM UTC
They keep sending these transient friendships,
And it seems like I can’t get a single grip,
And the hollow words, they tell me,
Make me see how empty they are with me.
We’ve been paralyzed by concrete feelings,
by faces we barely recognize.
Its amazing what people will do,
Just so they can be contemplated by you.
Sirens filled the air,
The water still dripping from my hair,
All I heard were lies, deceit and tears,
The summary of all your fears.
It’s always the same every morning,
I guess you get used to playing musical beds,
I’ve become a monster I’ve never met,
Someone I seriously forgot to pet.
You can call yourself a monster, But the truth is,
That underneath this grin,
We're all beasts with thick skin.
I don't know what to chase anymore,
Where to point the sails ashore,
It seems like every time I care too much,
We fall apart.
It looks like I'm chasing my favorite phantoms in the dark,
For you I fell so hard,
Like a pulmonary artery in the heart,
Blindly beating for a counterpart.
I’m going to knock out,
I’m sorry just really was held up on alarms,
Sirens and torments fill this fragile state of mind.
Which keeps us awake, makes us aware, and keeps us adored,
Even if you lose it tonight,
The next morning it won't be filled by awkward half-hearted byes.
I don't know what to chase anymore,
Where to point the sails ashore,
It seems like every time I care too much,
Things fall apart.
May 20, 2011
May 20, 2011 at 9:05 PM UTC
swimming under lightning,
lighting our submergence flash allure:
smooth bodies, bright to glimpse and shadow-grin intent
collide and mingle folds of pleasure, firmly
bent to tangle, clasp and spurn the world above,
rely on one another's breath, stored for loving
long in bubbles gasping sweet melodics free
as with imagined merfolk passion-songs of lore, prescient
lapping dance of tidal fruits you loved before they came,
moonray columns stage us in our seashift wombs--again--
within a womb--like instant chrysalises blinking luminescent bursts
i am interred within the waves you ripple into me, blind
carnal pressures built from ancient shores become the sea again
the magnitude entrances on its own, that acrophobic thrill
celestial in our interthreaded eyes, open
to a color deeply in the dark of octopodal ink
a curtain phosphorescent armpit pulse,
caressing thumb and lip, billows, sways the dance anew,
to sonar drumbeat, pulmonary height
the spinal scream a surface ripple for the sky,
symphonic deep to barely whisper into air
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 9:06 AM UTC
i
Off in the beaten path
An Echelon of secret tribal's;
I pirouetted with them in plumage
Mine queen showed up, just on arrival.
ii
Her timing was perfect
As tis she watched me caper;
Me and mine Reyna's amour'
Like tambourines, shook with ancient shaker's.
iii
Hot coal ember's
Igneous in ourn chest's;
Ourn pulmonary arterie's
Bracketed, by her tribesgirl dress.
iv
We were gladden
Betwixt the wilderness;
Under mango leaves
Jane seduced me, equatorial phene's.
v
Whilst the darkness wore down
And the tribesmen went to sleep;
Me and mine protector
In the dusk, disappeared, into eachother's soul's to keep.
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
can you spare some change
i could really use a little
get back up on my feet
feel the ground beneath the street
all i got’s this little beat that’s
pushin pulmonary particles through
passages inside me
it’s a losing battle
but i wage it anyway
every day
there’s no point, just a pulse,
just that rhythm driving chemicals
through channels unknown
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
Enough faking it. Come already.
Feel like it's right, for once. Like I'm right, this determined swerving from right to left.
Turning East and West into a way to circumvent the crest.
Fallen into yet another losing game of chess.
I
Left a small population of very tall buildings to make another attempt at living.
Dried my eyes and the blood filling them congealed.
Injected the whole of another tube of "real" tropical fruit filling right into my pulmonary like, maybe if someone would eat it before the rot set in for once... Do you know the way back to happiness?
Cuz I'm about to board another bus with a flashing sign on the front that reads: home...
and for some **** reason...I'm wondering how you'd feel about that.
Right? Or is it wrong? Or am I just all that's left?
OK? Well...how are you?
Just okay?
Well
Stalemate.
I didn't sleep when I was in your arms. Too busy thinking about, Why did I hold onto something that was bound to leave with the next cold morning breeze?
"We always slept better together." ???
Probably because the windchill of my staggered circular breathing kept you warm.
Shrugging off the blanket I became, when the night finally let up, and the heat of the sun made you too warm
I fell off you.
Checkmate.
You probably felt like I was passing away.
Nah, I had a foot in the coffin door.
Gotcha, King me.
Wrong game? oh..
Thus then must we return,
To the greater hands
Who is trolling us along?
Tricks, Pieces, Mirrors, begone
Of the ones who took love willingly, no more crying, no more crying.
Right where we belong.
We are seeds.
It's a hard thing for a man to grow old. To watch his hard earned muscles erode as stone does.
But stones roll forward...still.
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 3:57 AM UTC
Fast, please, and let that heart ache
just for a moment, the sun's in today.
Recall like chocolate that thick blood and all that ugly love.
After all this time, you whisper to me still,
an echo in a chamber filled with words and lines that make me cry.
I won't be bitter -
being bitter merely begs the roses up next spring,
pushing through the lawn, pale with over-watering.
The only difference now -
I have forgotten your smell.
Hard to be in love with a personality you have so clearly discarded,
his love.
perhaps, I will grow old, begging for return.
luckily, as the sun sets I keep him somewhere
between my pulmonary artery and the base of my vagus nerve,
a heartful love urge,
the lake of tears.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 11:42 AM UTC
fold the ventricle to the right
the pulmonary to the left
the wrinkled capillaries need to be ironed
pillowcases of vessels need to be thrown in the wash
take one last whiff of his scent
before he's just another sheet in the laundry
***** laundry
clean of heartache
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
It starts as fire in stomach
it churns over burnt nerves
and over used thoughts
It makes it way up
to your pulmonary system
it clogs your arteries
fights the oxygen
slow asphyxiation
Then it reaches your mouth
unwanted word *****
shaken not stirred
leaves a sour taste in your mouth
those acids of despair
those uncontrolled insults
that stab the other
on hit after the other
Then it settles
like the waves of raging sea
it sits in fetal position
in the core of your brain
burning neuron by neuron
with flaming guilt
silencing all irrationale
and giving voice to logic
You sit there
awake, it's 5 am
and all you can do
is replay day themes
of your angry blackout
Oh rage you're such black magic
that I have
yet to
master
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
contumacious imagery,
amorous intensity,
prostitution of the heart,
beating off the chart.
a brush of fingertips,
aching for the whisper of lips,
quicksand stare,
vulnerable and bare.
delicate pusillanimity,
accenting my pulmonary timidity
,hemorrhage of thought,
words of devotion wrought.
closure to desperation,
surrendering upon inclination,
innocence tainted by pain,
tears cleverly disguised as rain.
intoxicating appetite for sensation,
hesitation forcing isolation,
my attatchment never satiated,
my soul emaciated.
jilted girl am i,
you are the apple of my eye,
with you i am besot,
,my adoration not forgot.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 6:32 AM UTC
Meanings mull within mulish minds
Letters like lingering halitosis
Words waft with each exhale
Sentences,
swirling, sliding, sighing
Phrases pant per pulmonary systems
Tumbling through teeth,
Vocabulary resonates outward
Into the stagnant air
Permanence spills over tongues
Word ***** condemnation
Speak your life sentence
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 6:19 PM UTC
litter my body
with art
ornate drawings paintings mixed colors
silver gold clay copper jewelry
I don't mind bruises
(any kind)
thud thud thud through my heart
litter my ears heart throat
with songs that shake my aorta
unbalancing my Eustachian tube
deafen me to everything else
and I will breathe in until my lungs ache
(pulmonary artery backed up--too much oxygen)
the air full of wrong lust love hope rain sun speed disease panic difference bodies hate sky and infinite space
I must know what it feels like
to be
fully fully fully
alive
(I won't miss a thing)
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
For sale:
One complete pulmonary system
Heart, only good for parts.
Bloodless, lifeless, scarred on the left side
Email with bids and for photographs.
Feb 20, 2010
Feb 20, 2010 at 4:46 AM UTC
I almost slit my pulmonary artery
and I almost tasted bleak ** drops.
But I escaped the morticioner's needle
I refuse to have my eyes sewn closed
and my lips clasped tight.
Freedom only comes by the light of ultrasounds and x rays.
I can see now
better than before.
And it's all thanks to the gravediggers
who replaced the phlamalderhide
with breastmilk.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
Let's talk about this nurse
who stays at pulmonary unit.
He takes care of patients
who has difficulty
in respiration.
But what I want to say is this:
I feel like I should be admitted too
because he takes my breath away.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
given emerald veins
enfracture sightful caverns
of this pulmonary gaze,
earthbeat pericardium of whim
and mystic with a settled dew of ages--
some heady ancient script of silk
still gathers fragile nourishment
and struggle warmth to drain
my needless thoughts of flight,
center span to dome the air--
geodesy of form
enframing emptiness
and crimson fates
to quench
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC